


batting a thousand

by kittenscully



Series: x files prompt fills [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: (because they sleep together), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s6e19 The Unnatural, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Post-Episode: s06e19 The Unnatural, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenscully/pseuds/kittenscully
Summary: It must be something in the air.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: x files prompt fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789186
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	batting a thousand

It must be something in the air.

The field is lit up like under spotlights, and the night is late-spring cool, and it all seems just a bit too perfect to be real, because Mulder has his arms full of warm, good-natured Scully. 

“We’re batting a thousand, Mulder,” she tells him breathlessly, between bursts of laughter that he can only describe as giggles, and he hadn’t even known that giggling was a thing that Scully could do, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sound for as long as he lives. 

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Nope.” 

And he gathers her closer, soft new suede and spicy perfume, as if she’d reapplied it before coming here, just for him. As if he doesn’t want to bury his face in her neck and breathe in the simple Scully-smell of her skin and her shampoo every single night, long after any appealing fragrance has worn away.

The bat swings at their feet, and they’re barely pretending to play anymore, just swaying. He kisses the corner of her jaw because it’s right there, and because the drama of their lives feels, for a blissful moment, like a rose tinted Hollywood movie instead. She sighs sweetly and melts like sugar on the rim of a martini glass, and he’s loved her for over four years, but spent so few of those hundreds of nights making her happy. 

_It’ll be different now_ , he tells himself. He can see her smiling, and he kisses the corner of her mouth daringly, positive reinforcement. 

*

And, because neither of them want to let it end, late night finds them in the 24-hour diner down the street, one milkshake and a plate of fries framed by two cups of coffee strong enough to scrub away rust. 

She’s cross-legged, her heeled boots abandoned on the tile floor and her jacket tossed onto the booth beside her. Her elbows are propped up on the table, bony and delicate, sleeves pushed up to her biceps. She looks ten years younger, and he feels like the kid he never really was, secretly falling in love over cheap food and under neon lights, lingering in liminal spaces to avoid going home and facing reality again. 

“An alien, Mulder?” Her skepticism is as comfortable as his favorite jacket, worn and well loved, and she’s still smiling, hasn’t stopped smiling for hours. “Obscure baseball legend Josh Exley disappeared off the face of the earth because he was an _alien_?”

“Hey, I’m just the messenger.”

She laughs, even though it wasn’t a joke, just because she _likes_ him. His teenaged fantasies hadn’t looked anything like this, like her, wisps of red hair curling at her temples and that tight black sweater creeping up her stomach, milkshake straw between her teeth.

Her little hand sneaks across the table to steal his fries, and she’s such a cliche, sometimes, but he wouldn’t dream of complaining. 

“That’s gross,” she tells him confidently, when he dips one in her milkshake. 

“You’ve never tried it, have you?” 

She shakes her head. 

He dips another, and, wonder of wonders, she lets him feed it to her. 

“I was right,” she announces after a moment, looking absolutely delighted as she licks strawberry milkshake and crystals of salt from her lips. “That’s disgusting, Mulder.”

His teenaged fantasies hadn’t looked anything like this, but _god,_ they should’ve. 

* 

And they don’t discuss it, but she follows him all the way home in her car, parking it behind his on the empty street. He’d watched her linger behind him at every intersection, wondered each time if she’d turn away and head home. 

_No expectations,_ he tells himself, even as they reunite on the sidewalk. Even as her hand slips into his, even as she smiles at him, daring and bright and beautiful. It must be something in the air.

He opens the door to the building for her, he unlocks the door to his apartment for her. He looks around, half expecting a camera crew, sure that any moment the director will yell _cut!_ and they’ll move on to the next scene, skipping over whatever’s building between them. 

But there’s no cut, no skip. There’s only her, impossibly prettier in the low lighting of his apartment, unzipping and toeing off her shoes as she leans back against his kitchen counter. 

There’s only the sliver of flushed skin between her slacks and the hem of her sweater that makes him move closer, as if in a trance, makes him palm her waist daringly, inevitably, like in a movie, like there won’t be any consequences for touching her. Like the world won’t end if he does. 

There’s only her soft, small frame, crushed against his, her big blue eyes wondering up at him. The two cool palms that pull his jaw down, down, down, and the pouty little mouth that parts, dreamlike, under his. 

*

And in all of his lonely nights, he’s never imagined it quite like this, on the counter, her hands bunched in his jersey and her legs around his waist.

Of course, he’s _tried_ to imagine it, exactly like this, right down to the little purrs she makes when he thumbs over her clit and the way he can’t leave marks on her throat, even though she wants it so badly she forgets to tell him not to. 

He just hasn’t gotten it _right_ , that’s all, hasn’t gotten all of the details. 

He’s never imagined the way that she laughs, for one. Her pretty neck, extended for him like an invitation, her chin tilted back in mirth. The way she sighs out breathless, girlish giggles and squirms once she adjusts to his size. 

He’s never imagined the sweater bunched up above her tits like this. Dark pink nipples poking over the edges of the satin bra where he’s tugged them free, hard and perfect and begging to be bitten and just out of reach of his mouth as long as his cock stays inside of her like this. 

He’s never imagined just how sensitive they are, either. How she whines with his thumbs digging into the peaks, how she pushes at his chest like she wants him to stop and then fusses at him when he does. How she struggle but doesn’t mean it when he _doesn’t_ stop, smiling the whole time like he’s gotten something right, for once, sighing _yesyesyesyesyes_ under her breath.

Making her come does feel like having every question answered, like unlocking the secrets of the universe – that much at least, is exactly how he’s imagined. 

But the part right after is completely new. 

When she rolls her hips, suddenly every bit the seductress, and murmurs _c’mon, Mulder,_ with her nails scratching over his scalp, _c’mon, I wanna feel it, Mulder,_ with her perky breasts dragging over his chest, _my favorite part, Mulder, having you come inside me, every time,_ as if they’ve done this before, as if she knows what it’ll feel like, _always how I imagine it,_ her mouth right up against his jaw as she talks him right up to the edge, her cunt vice-tight around his dick, _makes me come so hard it hurts, Mulder, every time I touch myself –_

*

It must be something in the air.

The streetlights outside are just bright enough that he can see her smile, and the night is late-spring cool, breeze coming through his open window. And it all seems just a bit too perfect to be real, because Mulder has his arms full of warm, post-coital Scully. 

“I have to tell you a secret, Mulder,” she tells him, sleepy, snuggling her naked form back into his arms. He hadn’t known that she would be so cuddly, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way she feels against him in this moment for as long as he lives. 

“What is it?”

“I already knew how to play baseball.” 

And he gathers her closer, soft skin and gentle sighs, smiles into her hair as she tugs the sheet over them lazily. He buries his face in her neck, breathes in her Scully-smell, almond shampoo and the sweat from round two lingering above her collarbone. There’s still perfume, there, and he kisses the last traces of the scent.

“I thought you might,” he tells her. “You were too good at it. We were batting a thousand, after all.”

“I knew it.” 

She sounds smug, delighted, his fussy little kitten that got the cream. He kisses her jaw, and she cranes her neck back, kisses him square on the mouth in return. 

_It’ll be different now,_ he tells himself. She smiles, blinks at him lazily, as if to say _yes, yes it will._

**Author's Note:**

> This was a response to an ask requesting post-the unnatural headcanons – I got inspired, despite the fact that I don't headcanon this as their actual first time, and wondered what would've happened if they had ended up going home together.


End file.
